by Todd Ritter
“My mistake.”
While he spoke, Nick raised his right leg. His bones creaked inside the plaster cast. Pain spiked at the knee and shot through his entire body. Nick tried to ignore it. There’d be more pain to come in a second. Worse pain.
The cast was heavy, which made it hard to lift. But the pros outweighed the cons, especially when Nick slammed its weight into Gary’s groin.
Nick knew it hurt him more than it did Gary. But he was prepared for it. The nurse wasn’t, and the pain made him double over. Nick raised the cast again, striking Gary in the head. That was enough to knock him out for a little bit. Hopefully long enough for Nick to get out of that shithole they called a hospital.
Before doing that, Nick grabbed the pole. Still attached to it was the plastic sling, which he slipped over the nurse’s head until it was around his neck. Nick pushed the pole just inside the door, leaving the plastic band outside. When he closed the door, it held the sling in place, tightening it like a noose around Gary’s neck. Even if the nurse did wake up soon, he wouldn’t be able to move.
With Gary secured, Nick rifled through his pockets, finding a set of car keys.
“Thanks, Gary,” he said, patting him on the cheek. “I owe you a beer.”
Nick shuffled down the hall, exhilaration halving his pain. Determination dulled the rest. He needed to get to the exit at the end of the hall without anyone seeing him. After that, it was off to the parking lot, then the mill.
He hoped he wasn’t too late. He hoped that when he got there, Henry—and Kat herself—would still be alive.
Seeing the scalpel, Henry tried to scream behind his closed mouth. The vibration it created caused the pain to erupt once again across his lips, making him scream even more. Martin ignored the sound as he swiped the flat side of the scalpel across his scrubs, cleaning it.
He then placed it against the right side of Henry’s neck. Its razor-sharp blade scraped along his skin. Henry closed his eyes, waiting to feel it slice into his flesh.
That didn’t happen. Instead, Martin pulled the blade away.
“This is going to be tough on Deana,” he said. “I tried to warn you, Henry. I told you to stay away. But you didn’t, and now you’re going to break my sister’s heart.”
Martin pressed the scalpel to his neck again. This time it stayed there.
Henry cried out—a terrified whimper that rattled around in his mouth. He attempted another scream, hoping the force of it would separate his lips. When that didn’t work, he tried opening his mouth. The jaws parted, straining against the thread coiled inside his lips. The thread tugged his skin—two dozen pinpoints of sheer agony.
Martin applied pressure to the scalpel. The blade began its descent into Henry’s flesh.
He opened his mouth wider, hoping he could part it enough to snap the thread that trembled inside his lips.
The scalpel broke through the barrier of Henry’s skin, sinking deeper into his neck. There was a flash of coldness as the blade entered his body. It was followed by a stomach-roiling tickle as Martin slid the scalpel down his neck, slicing it open.
Henry opened his mouth wider. The thread in his lips trembled like a plucked guitar string, the tension wearing it down, making it weak.
He closed his eyes. Summoning every ounce of energy left in his violated body, he screamed again.
Instead of breaking, the thread acted as its own scalpel, cutting through the rubbery flesh of his lips. It ripped through the bottom lip in a gush of blood and skin until his mouth parted.
The scream burst out, blasting into the open and echoing through the darkness. Meanwhile, blood gushed from his neck, spilling out of him in a crimson waterfall. It soaked the table and collected in puddles around his head and shoulders.
Henry grew dizzy. Whether it was from loss of blood or basic primal terror, he didn’t know. Weakness settled over his body. His vision clouded and his mind grew hazy. He could open his mouth again, but he knew that whatever words came out wouldn’t stop the inevitable. They wouldn’t clot the blood rushing from his neck.
“No,” he mumbled through lips that also bled. “No.”
Martin chastised him. “You shouldn’t have done that, Henry. It’ll only make it worse.”
He had released the scalpel and now held another tool. Henry strained to see what it was. When he did, he immediately regretted it.
It was a metal hook, which Martin placed next to Henry’s neck.
As blood still flowed out of the cut, Martin poked the hook into it. The feeling it produced was worse than the scalpel, worse than the needle and thread. It was an outright invasion of his body, causing Henry to shake violently as the hook dug around in his neck, searching for something to latch onto.
“I want the jugular vein first,” Martin said as he manipulated the hook. “I got that wrong the first time. But I think George still came out okay in the end.”
He increased the speed of his digging, the hook swiping blindly inside Henry’s neck. Each movement of it caused his head to jerk in a seizure of helplessness. He had no control over his body anymore. No control over anything. He was just a living cadaver, being raped by cold, hard steel.
When Martin snagged an artery, Henry felt it in his entire body. His head stopped twitching. His neck tightened. His throat constricted.
Martin tugged slightly and the artery tightened within Henry’s body. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swallow. He tried, but his muscles were under attack, refusing to function. A croaking sound formed in the back of his throat, unable to be stopped. It gurgled up past his tongue and through his shredded lips.
“No,” he gasped.
As Martin continued to pull on the vein, Henry knew he was going to die. His body was preparing for it, getting ready for the inevitable end. That’s what caused the twitching and the croaking. It was a rehearsal of the death rattle that was certain to come.
The vein was outside his body now. It exited with a slimy sucking noise that reminded Henry of earthworms in rain-soaked dirt.
Its exposure sent his body into shock. His heart, which had been pumping at warp speed for so long, suddenly slowed. His eyes went blank. Although Henry still had them open, he saw nothing but a cottony haze covering his pupils.
The croak burped out of his throat again, gradually extending itself until it was a guttural hiss.
His ears felt plugged. He barely heard Martin mumbling to himself.
“Now I cut the artery.”
Henry’s body revved up again in one last flash of energy before fading forever. His heart thrummed again. His hearing cleared. His eyes could suddenly see. He shifted them to Martin, who hovered over him. The hook was in his left hand. The scalpel was in his right. They were about to connect at his artery. When they did, he would be dead.
Martin took a deep breath as he placed the scalpel blade to his artery.
Henry understood with crystalline clarity that he had mere seconds left to try to save his life. Using his body, which was tied up and worn down, wasn’t possible. All he had were his wits—and his voice.
“No.”
When Henry spoke, he felt the artery moving through the gash in his neck. Each word made it bend like a plastic straw.
“Please. No.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
The voice wasn’t Henry’s. It came from a darkened corner of the room. When it spoke again, Henry knew who it belonged to.
“You don’t have to do it, Martin,” Kat Campbell said. “You can stop this right now.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Kat had followed the scream. That blast of noise, a bansheelike wail that cut through the darkness, led her to back into the hallway, down a precarious set of steps, and into the bowels of the mill. Rounding a corner, she saw Martin immediately.
His entire body was covered in the same type of scrubs she had worn in the embalming room. Gown. Apron. Gloves. Cap concealing the hair. Paper coverings
over the shoes. It explained why they had never been able to lift a print or hair sample from anything he had contact with. There was nothing exposed that could have left any.
He stood in front of a table, blocking Kat’s view. To Martin’s right, she saw a pair of legs stretched out and tied up. Henry’s legs.
Martin held the scalpel in his right hand, guiding it toward an area of Henry’s body that Kat couldn’t see. That’s when she raised her Glock, pointed it at the back of Martin’s head and spoke.
When he didn’t move, Kat spoke again.
“I’m going to count to three. If you don’t put the scalpel down and back away, I’m going to kill you.”
She meant it. Arms outstretched, she felt the Glock heavy in her grip. Her finger twitched against the trigger. She wasn’t a violent woman. Not by any means. But Martin’s actions had torn the town apart and haunted her dreams for months. He had gone after her son, and James would likely be scarred for the rest of his life because of it. So nothing would have pleased her more than to gun Martin down right then and there.
“One,” she said.
Martin raised his hands.
“Two.”
He placed the scalpel flat on the table.
“Three.”
He finally backed away, giving Kat a good look at Henry. Shirtless and bound to a plank of pine in four places, he was bleeding profusely but still alive.
With the gun still trained on Martin, she edged into the room.
“Keep your hands in the air and take ten steps away from him,” she said. “If you run, I will shoot you. If you take only nine steps, I will shoot you. Start moving.”
Martin moved backward while Kat counted his steps. For each one he took away from the table, she took one toward it. As she drew close to Henry, she saw that his neck had been sliced open. A wormlike vein stuck out of the wound. She reached the table and, without thinking, poked it back into his neck before clamping a hand over the gash. Blood squeezed between her fingers.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said, not knowing if that was the truth. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
Henry stared at her helplessly. There was gratefulness in his eyes. Panic, too. He knew it could be too late to save his life. He opened his mouth and Kat saw that his lips had been reduced to shreds of flesh. Thread slithered throughout the skin.
He managed to choke out a few words. “Stitch. Neck.”
Kat shushed him. She knew what had to be done. Henry was bleeding to death. She needed to close the wound in his neck immediately, even if it meant turning her back on the man who called himself the Grim Reaper. It was a risk, but one she was forced to take if Henry was going to survive.
“Say something, Martin,” she barked. “I need to know you’re still standing far away.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Kat noted the volume in his voice and judged his distance. If he got any louder, then it meant he was getting closer. Which meant she would kill him.
“Tell me about Arthur McNeil,” she said. “I know what he did to you.”
“Then I guess I don’t need to talk about it.”
A needle already looped with thread sat next to the scalpel on the table. Wasting no time, Kat lowered the gun, picked up the needle and shoved it into Henry’s neck. Blood squished between her trembling fingers, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
“When did it start? Before your father died?”
“Yes,” Martin said, his voice maintaining the same volume. “I was eleven.”
“It took place in the embalming room, right?”
“Yes.”
“While your mother worked upstairs?”
“Yes.”
Kat continued the stitching at Henry’s neck. So far, she had managed to loop the thread through the wound twice.
“I know that when your dad died, Art told you he’d stop if you did something for him. What was that?”
“You seem to be the expert,” Martin said sarcastically. “You tell me.”
“He made you embalm your father. He made you cut the neck and the arteries. He made you pour in the embalming fluid.”
And after that was the sewing of the lips and the coins over the eyes. Exactly like what had happened to Bob. Kat couldn’t begin to comprehend what it must have been like. Martin’s father was lying dead in front of him and a trusted family friend was forcing him to do things no kid could ever understand.
“Am I right?” she asked.
Kat slipped the needle through Henry’s neck one last time before tying off the thread. It was a horrible stitch job. The thread was crooked and knotted in parts. Huge gaps remained where she should have made another pass with the needle. But it was good enough. Henry’s bleeding had slowed considerably.
“Martin, is that what happened?”
“Yes.”
Kat’s spine stiffened when she heard Martin’s voice.
It was closer.
Much closer.
She reached for the Glock before whirling around to face him.
Martin stood only five feet away, and he had his own gun. Kat knew it was the same one that had been in the delivery van, the same one used to kill Lucas Hatcher.
Without saying a word, Martin fired twice.
The bullets punched into Kat’s chest. She screamed, flying backward next to the table. The last thing she saw was Henry. On the table itself. Surrounded by blood. Mouthing her name.
Her back struck the floor, a collision of bone and wood that sent shock waves up her spine. Pain squeezed her body. Air rushed out of her lungs.
Then, with one last gasp, Kat Campbell’s world went dark.
It took only an instant for Kat to fall. One second she stood at Henry’s side. The next she was on the floor. When it was over, Henry strained against the ropes, trying to shout her name.
Only he couldn’t shout. He could barely speak. But his thoughts were so loud in his head that it felt like he was screaming at full volume.
Kat! Dear God, no!
Grunting with exertion, he tried to sit up, pushing himself against the ropes that held him down. He needed to see her. He needed to know if she was still alive. If she was, he needed to help her, just as she had helped him. But the binds refused to budge, the rope digging into him.
Kat! Can you hear me? Answer me!
He turned his head as far as the rope and the pain would allow, catching a glimpse of Kat’s legs splayed on the floor. Tears burned their way down his cheeks as he managed to croak out her name.
“Kat.”
His thoughts screamed the rest.
Don’t die! Please don’t die!
Martin took a few steps toward Kat’s body and kicked her in the ribs. Satisfied she was dead, he shoved his gun into a deep pocket of his apron, where it had been hidden the entire time. He then bent forward and picked up Kat’s gun. Wordlessly, he opened the chamber and let the bullets slide into his palm. Then he threw them into the darkness, where they bounced and scattered. Next, he tossed the gun away. It hit the wall before clunking to the floor.
With the guns out of the way, Martin vanished to a corner of the room. He returned a moment later, dragging a metal pail behind him. As he reached the table, he removed a plastic bottle and a funnel attached to a thin rubber tube.
Henry’s thoughts grew silent when Martin opened the bottle. The odor of chemicals assaulted his nose.
Formaldehyde. It filled the air around him.
The odor meant one thing—Martin still intended to embalm him.
Glancing between Henry and the bottle, Martin poured the formaldehyde into the pail. When the bottle was empty, he returned to the table and held Henry’s head in place. His hand fumbled along the wood next to him, finding the scalpel exactly where he had left it.
Picking it up, he held the blade to Henry’s neck.
“This time,” he said, “I’m not going to hesitate to kill you.”
Pain.
That’s all Kat felt.
Horrible pain. Deep in her chest, it pulsed at the spot where the two bullets had hit, feeling like twin holes in her sternum.
But Kat knew there’d be no holes there. Bruises, yes. Maybe marks worse than the ones on Henry’s face. But no bullet holes. At least not on that day.
With her eyes still closed, she slid a hand across her chest. Her fingers snaked past the buttons of her uniform and ran over the Kevlar vest she had taken from the trunk of her patrol car. The two bullets were embedded deep inside it, squished into still-hot studs of metal.
Sitting up, Kat opened her eyes.
Martin was next to Henry again, lantern light glinting off the scalpel in his hand.
Kat climbed to her feet. She shot across the room, the pain in her chest flaring as she tackled Martin from behind.
He dropped the scalpel as he fell forward onto Henry’s chest. Pushing himself away from the table, he nudged Kat backward until her feet hit the pail on the floor.
The pail rattled between her ankles. Kat tried to keep it upright with her feet but couldn’t. The pail fell over. Formaldehyde sloshed out, splashing her shoes before washing across the floor.
She moved out of the puddle the formaldehyde created and tried to push Martin against the table again. Martin’s arms flailed, fighting back. He reached back to grab Kat’s hair with one hand. The other stretched out, reaching for the scalpel.
Kat tugged Martin’s arm. His fingers pulled away from the scalpel, grabbing the kerosene lantern instead. The lamp toppled over in a crush of glass and fire. Kerosene rushed over the table, soaking Henry before dripping onto the floor.
Fanned by Martin’s flapping hands, the flame spread. It caught the trail of kerosene and leaped to life in a menacing whoosh that rushed past Henry’s ear. A second later, it was everywhere. Flames streaked across the table and ignited his clothes. The fire spread to his shoulder and right arm, eating the fabric of his shirt.
The fire reached the rope that tied Henry down. As flames chewed through it, he pushed his arms away from his side. The rope snapped in a burst of sparks and fell away, trailing smoke.
When she saw that Henry was almost free, Kat yanked Martin’s arm again. The force of the tug whirled him around until he faced her. Not wasting a golden opportunity, Kat punched him in the jaw.